


Let The World Burn

by TheAnonFanOn



Category: The Last of Us, Video Blogging RPF, dreamnotfound - Fandom
Genre: Adult Language, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Angst, Apocalypse, Dream/George, Dystopian/future (apocalypse), Gay, Love, M/M, Please comment I like feedback, Regular updates?, Slow Burn, Survival, Work In Progress, hopefully cute, sfw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:02:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25198933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAnonFanOn/pseuds/TheAnonFanOn
Summary: NOT COMPLETE----------------------By some miracle, George was in the right place at the right time. Or, the worst time, because the world began to end as soon as he arrived in Florida. Now he must survive day-to-day at the side of his best friend, Clay, in an unknown country, with death lurking at every turn. Will they live past tomorrow? Or will they die in each other's arms? Love finds you in the most inconvenient of places, don't you think?
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), dreamnotfound - Relationship, gream - Relationship
Comments: 92
Kudos: 464





	1. Chapter 1

A/N: This apocalypse scenario is based off of the video game "The Last Of Us." It's a very loose interpretation of the game, and does not include any of the original characters from the game, simply the history(ish) and the types of zombies. For context, there are different evolutions of zombies, the two most common of which are called "Runners" and "Clickers". Runners are classic zombies, Clickers are blind, are much stronger, and use echolocation. The zombies are most often referred to as "Infected" and the infection can either be spread through bites or through "spores" which grow in certain areas.

Enjoy!

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chest heaving with labored breaths, knuckles white on his gun, Clay threw a dark glare in George's direction. 

"We just _had_ to check this building, didn't we?" He hissed through his teeth. 

George glared back at his companion, shaking with fear as he leaned back against the wardrobe, which had fallen onto the floor with it's contents all askew. "You're the one who gave away half our supplies! We needed food!" The brit sounded strangled. He grasped his crossbow as tightly as he could, clutching it to his chest for some form of familiarity, for some kind of comfort. All he got was a cold sense of dread.

"The camp will have food!" Clay's face was gaunt and fearful. His lip was split and bleeding, dribbling crimson down his chin. It had been a long time since his last haircut; his normally mid-length blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail. 

"How do you know the camp is even real, Clay?" The brunette tried to keep his voice level and reign in his anger. "That girl could have been lying to you!"

"We have to check," The taller of the two's tone softened. There was a note of desperation in his words; If this camp wasn't there, they were out of options. "We have to risk it."

Before George could respond, a massive _BANG_ sounded from behind them. Clay flinched, his finger twitching dangerously close to the trigger of his pistol. His green eyes darted over his shoulder, and over the side of the haphazard wardrobe, to the locked door across the room. 

"There's got to be a way out of here," The Floridian breathed. "We aren't dying here."

"Hey, I'm dying here," The small young man smiled brightly at his friend. "Could you help me with my bags?"

"For sure," Clay grinned, popping his trunk and assisting George in hoisting the heavy suitcases into the car. "Let's get out of this rain."

It was a gloomy day in Orlando. George's plane had just landed and brought him to meet his best friend for the first time. Despite the current situation of the spreading illness, George was excited to get away from home for a bit and visit America. All he had to do was stay away from the spores, and that wouldn't be too hard. The areas where the plant had began to grow were now all blocked from the public, to prevent more sickness, and all the ill people were at the hospital, being treated. Everything was under control. 

...Right?

As soon as the two young men set foot in Clay's house, they heard the sirens. 

"A hurricane?" George questioned, not sure what to think. 

"Maybe," Clay muttered, quickly turning on the tv and switching to the news. "But I didn't hear anything about a hurricane earlier."

On the news, a pretty young woman in a purple dress was speaking frantically. 

_"Doctors have been doing what they could to treat the ill, but it seems nothing has worked, and the patients have begun to go insane."_

Behind her, the largest hospital in Orlando was looming. Suddenly, a window on the second floor was smashed to bits, and a screaming man hurled himself out of it. He landed with a sickening crunch, a dozen feet behind the reporter.

_"Oh my God--!"_ The reporter gasped. Then the man rose from the ground, his eyes rolled back in his head, his teeth bared.

He charged.

The cameraman retreated, but not before catching the moment the man viciously mauled the reporter on film. 

More screams of the insane and windows breaking could be heard in the background as the cameraman fled the scene. 

Mustering all the courage he could, Clay dragged himself to his feet and faced the door. There was a pang in his shin, where he believed there was a fracture, but he had to ignore it for now. Raising his pistol, the young man approached the door.

The sound of fingernails clawing at wood was deafening. An Infected knew they were hiding there, and would stop at nothing to devour them alive. George and Clay were trapped, and had no choice but to fight. 

Clay reached the door and placed a hand on the knob, glancing back at George.

The brunette was watching him from the corner, tucked behind the fallen wardrobe, brandishing his crossbow. Or, more specifically, Clay's crossbow that George was using. 

Taking a deep, steadying breath, the blonde braced himself to attack.

Clay and George wandered, almost aimlessly. It had been three months since Outbreak Day. Many people had abandoned their homes, and taken to hiding where they could to avoid the Infected, which had scoured every building and torn everything apart to kill any living thing that could be found. The whole world had shut down when the Infected escaped the hospitals. There was nothing left; The government was long gone, there were no laws, there were no stores, no safe places. Anyone who hadn't been killed or infected in the initial outbreak was living day to day, surviving however they could.

And Clay was really struggling.

He felt like such a cliché. 

In every zombie movie he'd ever seen, the two survivors fall in love. And he just _hated_ that he was catching feelings for George.

_This isn't the place or time,_ He always told himself. _The world is ending._

But he just couldn't help it. Surviving the apocalypse together just brings you closer. And Clay couldn't deny that George, as obviously fearful as he was, was endearing.

"Let's find someplace to sleep," George muttered. He always talked so softly now. "It's going to be dark soon."

"Yeah," The blonde resisted to urge to sweep his companion into a strong, comforting hug. "Let's set up camp."

Reality had already set in for the two young men. They understood that this was the apocalypse. They understood that there would be no normal life anymore. They had accepted that fact a while ago. But George was still grappling with himself inside.

He regretted leaving England. He missed his family. The whole world had shut down, and George had no way of getting in contact with his parents or his siblings, if they were even still alive. 

_God, I hope they're still alive,_ He thought nervously. 

But even with is regret of leaving his family, he was happy to be with Clay. His friend was brave, and had somehow stayed seemingly calm. 

Even when the world was burning around them, Clay was resilient and brilliant. 

George couldn't help but wonder if their tireless dedication to Minecraft had anything to do with their survival. The two of them had quite a bit of virtual practice in survival situations, running from zombies and crafting supplies. And, most noticeably, combat. Clay was great in combat. 

The few times they had encountered an Infected, Clay had quickly dispatched of it, easily attacking and slitting it's throat with a hunting dagger or firing his pistol into it's face. The first time he'd done so he'd scared George; The dark look in his friend's green eyes startled him, gave him nightmares for weeks. But as time went on, George grew near numb to the violence. He still disliked death, and avoided fighting if he could, leaving the combat to Clay.

As time went on, George got quieter. He dreaded waking up in the morning. There didn't seem to be a point to going on, he just couldn't see the point. But Clay was determined to keep going for some reason, some reason that George couldn't fathom, and so he kept going. He kept waking up every morning, for Clay. He kept enduring, kept fighting, for Clay.

It was all he could do to survive. 

Clay hated the smell of death.

The Infected reeked, spreading a putrid stench of decay wherever they went. And the smell followed him, whenever he killed an Infected.

The killing no longer fazed him. He disliked it, yes, and disliked the way George would lean away from him after he would kill an Infected even more. But it became routine.

The two young men quickly found their way out of the abandoned apartment complex. The sun was setting, and George desperately wanted to rest.

Three years had passed since Outbreak Day. 

Anyone who was still alive was trying to find a new normal. Trying to find other survivors, trying to reconnect, trying to establish a real, permanent life in a real, permanent place.

George and Clay were no different. They had run into a young lady by the name of Penny, and she had told them of a camp in the mountains, full of survivors and food aplenty. Desperate for some kind of normalcy, the two young men marched on, heading due west as Penny had told them to do.

If they didn't get there in the next five days, they were sure to be goners.

But neither of them acknowledged that fact. At least, not out loud.

"You're limping," George spoke suddenly, breaking the silence between them as they walked through the abandoned, overgrown landscape. 

"I'm fine," Clay frowned.

"You're not. Stop," The smaller young man put a hand on his companion's shoulder. "Let's stay here for tonight." George pointed to an old gas station. 

Begrudgingly, Clay agreed to stop and rest. As soon as he sat down, lifting himself up onto the dusty counter inside the gas station, however, George grabbed his leg.

"Ow!" The blonde yelped, wincing at the sharp pain that shot through his leg. "What the hell?"

Silently, George got to work on making a make-shift splint/cast. 

Clay watching him wordlessly, oddly moved by the gesture. In their years together, both before the outbreak and now, George was never a very touchy type person. He didn't like physical contact. His disliked it even more when Clay had just killed an Infected. And now, here he was, handling Clay's broken leg with gentle, kind touches.

The blonde wished desperately to tell George how he felt. Wished more than anything else that he could explain just how deeply he care for George, just how much he wanted to protect George, just how badly he felt for dragging George along through the end of the world. But what would he do if George didn't feel the same? There was no where for either of them to go, They had to stay together, or they would surely die. 

And Clay was not about to let George die.


	2. Chapter 2

**Warning: Some violence and sexual-ish thoughts**

George scavenged the abandoned gas station for something solid enough to build a splint out of. Once he found a two-by-four, a little soggy but intact, he shuffled back to Clay and got to work. 

The physical contact with his long-time friend felt odd. George never was one to touch others, he was a bit of a germaphobe, but he felt a strong desire to do this for Clay. Was it gratitude? When they swung open that door and the Infected attacked, Clay had valiantly protected his companion. But it had also been bloody, and intense...

With a creak, Clay propped the door open just a crack and peered out into the hall. The Infected, a runner, had ceased it's assault upon the door and was crouched away in a shadowy, half-collapsed doorframe across the hall. But when it saw the door move, it's head snapped up.

Clay took a shaky breath.

He had to shut himself off for this.

Killing was his least favorite thing in the world.

Even when he was young, and he would go hunting with his family, he hated bringing death to any creature. Before the apocalypse, he often contemplated veganism, because he despised killing so much.

And when the end of the world came along, and he discovered that George was just as defenseless as a baby deer, he quickly realized that killing may be the only way to stay alive. More importantly, in his eyes, killing may be the only way to protect his British friend.

So, with fierce determination to keep George safe, Clay learned to shut his senses off and simply fight to survive.

There wasn't another second of hesitation as Clay threw the door open and aimed his pistol for the Infected. The blonde could only fire off one bullet, which landed a blow to the zombie's shoulder, before he was tackled to the ground. Decaying hands clawed at his face, his throat, his chest, as the Floridian struggled to push the infected away, both hands wrapped firmly around it's throat, having dropped his gun. Sharp stabs of pain shot through his leg as he fought, doing all he could to avoid getting bit. 

George cowered in the corner, not confident enough in his aim to fire at the zombie without hitting Clay as well. The small brown-eyed brit watched in fear as his friend finally managed to escape the grip of the zombie and get to his feet.

There was a cold, deadly look in his green eyes.

Clay kicked his attacker in the head, possibly in hopes to subdue it as he reached for his pistol, but the blow only seemed to anger the opponent. 

The infected grabbed ahold of Clay's leg, but the blonde was quicker, and tore himself away, stumbling back and nearly falling into the wall. The zombie scrambled to it's feet and charged, unaware that it's opponent had drawn his dagger. As soon as the attacker was close enough, Clay dived forward, driving the blade deep into the stomach of the Infected. 

And just like that, the battle was over, the zombie finally fully dead.

Clay's hands and blade were bloodied, and he was breathing heavily.

After a moment, he looked over at George.

"Are you okay?"

Handling his friend's leg carefully, gingerly prodding his shin to attempt and find the breaking point, George let his mind wander back to that moment.

The dark, uncaring look in Clay's eyes had made his heart race.

He wasn't sure if it was fear. It felt different. 

Watching the horrid violence of the fight made him feel sick. It always did. No matter how many infected he witnessed Clay kill, he couldn't stand the violence. Even George had managed to kill a few zombies, but it still made him want to puke.

Why, then, had the image of Clay, hands wrapped around his attacker's throat, eyes cold, not made him feel ill?

Something about the hands made his head buzz. 

Perhaps it was that choking doesn't faze an Infected, and George was confused by the tactic.

_Or... was it...?_

"Ow!" Clay hissed, suddenly dragging George out of his thoughts. 

"Right here?" The brunette asked gently, looking up. "This hurts?"

"Yes, badly," He was wincing, fists clenched. "Stop pressing on it, please."

"Okay. But you have to let me splint it. It must be fractured here, we have to try and hold it together."

"Uhg, alright, just please make it fast."

Nodding, George started to strap the two-by-four to Clay's shin. Once or twice in the process, Clay inhaled sharply from the pain, but once it was all done, he sighed with relief.

"Thank you," The blonde smiled lightly.

George stood and hoisted himself up onto the counter next to his friend, shrugging as he went. "No problem," he said. 

As if in sync, they both looked out the window at the same time. Clay couldn't help but compare the beauty of the setting sun to George's gentle smile, and he decided quickly that the latter was the winner. 

All was very calm in the gas station. The two young men sat upon the counter, watching the sun fall below the distant tree line, both silent. Once it was dusk, the sun too far beyond the horizon to light the area, George got his flashlight out of his backpack.

"Should we explore our camp?" He asked. "Or would you like me to look around while you rest your leg?"

"I'd like to dig around too. My leg feels just fine now."

"If you say so."

After a few minutes of searching the station, the two young men pooled their findings on the floor behind the counter, where they sat across from each other.

Clay had found a box of twinkies, a protein bar, and a handful of bullets. George had discovered a first aid kit, three small bottles of water, two bullets, and a bottle of rum. 

"The hell are these?" George frowned as he examined the twinkies box. "Pastries?"

"Sort of," Clay chuckled. "Try one."

The smaller young man ripped the box open and took out a small package, which contained a yellow sponge-like cake with white cream filling. He hadn't eaten anything since that morning, and was pretty hungry, so he wasted no time in getting it out and taking a bite.

He quickly regretted it.

"That's disgusting!" He spat, nearly gagging. "It's so _soggy_!" 

Clay wheezed. "You mean you don't like it?"

"No!" George was incredulous. "That's so gross!"

Still chuckling, Clay tore open the singular protein bar package and pulled it in half. "Here," He smiled. "Your half. Wash down the Twinkie with this."

The brit did as he was told and quickly downed the food. He then began to eye the bottle of rum he'd found. Clay noticed, and sighed.

"George," He spoke gently. "We're not drinking that. We need that for cleaning cuts."

"Not even one sip? It'll help me sleep."

"No. Just lay down, I'll keep first watch." 

"...Fine."

Soon, Clay was left awake on his own, keeping an eye out for any danger. 

But he couldn't keep his eyes off George.

The young man looked so peaceful in his sleep. Clay wished that he could bring that amount of tranquility to George when he was awake. He wished he could make George happy in the way that George makes him happy.

George gave Clay purpose and motivation to go on. Without George, Clay would both be alone and directionless. 

Clay knew they had to find this camp. It was the best way to keep George safe.

\-----------------------

So sorry this is short :(

Working on next chapter soon?


	3. Chapter 3

It was a beautiful summer night in eastern Colorado. The moon was waxing, lighting the landscape from the clear, starry sky, as an abundance of crickets sang a sweet sonata.

And none of it could compare to the sleeping young man beside Clay.

The Floridian had been head-over-heels for some time now. He hated himself for it, because he blamed himself for putting George in so much danger. Europe's outbreak had been much later on, and perhaps George would have been safer there, if he hadn't flown out to meet Clay, all those years ago. Now he was stuck in America, in the middle of the end of the world. 

George often assured Clay that it wasn't his fault, and that it was all okay. But he knew how much George was struggling; On rare occasion, the brit would get ahold of some form of liquor, and would get black-out drunk out of deep depression. George would rave on and on in his drunk delusions about how much he missed his family, how much he missed home. It pained Clay to see his friend drowning his troubles in alcohol. 

But even knowing how much George likely hated him, the Floridian was enraptured. 

George had drunk himself into a near stupor. He had cleaned out the last of Clay's minuscule liquor cabinet, and was seated on the floor next to the couch cradling an empty bottle of vodka. 

It was dark; The windows were boarded up and the lights had gone out an hour ago. All the power in Florida had gone down, as well as almost the entire world. The water had shut off across all of America, almost as soon as the outbreak had begun, a little over a week ago. And, as of yesterday, the cell towers were down as well, blocking the last chance George had to communicate with his family back in Britain. He had spent the last 24 hours checking and re-checking his phone, reading the last text he received from his family on repeat.

_Stay alive, George. This will be better soon. Just stay alive._

He hardly had to keep reading it, he already had the words committed to memory. But his phone battery was dwindling and he had a feeling this would be the last thing he ever saw of his family. 

Clay appeared beside him and shakily took a seat. The taller young man had been scouring the deepest corners of his cabinets for something edible, anything edible. They'd run out of food that morning, and all the grocery store had been long-since closed. There was no way of getting to the stores, anyways; Infected roamed the area in hoards, killing anything that moved. 

"We have to get out of this house," Clay whispered, mostly to himself. "We can't just sit here and wait to be killed. They'll find us eventually."

"No," The smaller, intoxicated young man said. "No, we have to stay here. We're safe here. The doors are all locked, they won't get in. We have to wait till this blows over."

"This isn't going to just _blow over,_ George! This is the fucking-- This is the end of the world!" The Floridian couldn't help the anger in his tone. "The world is _burning_ and unless we start fighting for our lives, we're gonna burn with it."

"Let the world burn," The brunette slurred. "Your house is made of concrete."

"Wh-- It's not-- Oh, fucking Christ, how much vodka did you drink?" 

"All of it."

"George! You can't sit here and drink away the real world! We-- We need to step up, we need to fight to survive. Our lives are worth fighting for, even as fucked up as they are... There's got to be some way to survive this, we can't lose hope just because we can't see the, the light at the end of the tunnel. We can _live_ without fear, somehow... we just have to figure it out and keep fighting, you know? Find more people, establish some kind of normal again. Build the world up from the ashes again."

Perhaps it was the vodka, but Clay's words evoked a fire in the pit of George's stomach. He started to see a bigger picture-- That they wouldn't be safe here, that they couldn't just be sitting ducks. This was the apocalypse, not a grocery store where you wait for your mom to find you when you get lost. He felt a renewed sense of determination. Survival _was_ possible, safety _was_ possible... But only if they fought for it. 

"We have to arm ourselves," Clay continued. "My dad lives up north about five miles, he's got lots of guns and knives and my old crossbow. We can go get him and some supplies."

"But how will we get there?" George asked.

"Walking, I guess. My car's not going anywhere soon..." He thought back to the other night, when he'd tried to get his pocket knife out of the glovebox of his car. Two Infected had torn the vehicle to pieces, trying to get to him inside. He had barely escaped with his life, and it had scared him badly. "We'll take tome kitchen knives, and my old baseball bat. We'll steer clear of the hot spots. But we have to go get guns, and my dad."

The two men each packed a backpack; They had no intention of returning. They steeled themselves for the horrors of the outside, and began their journey.

At first, all seemed nearly normal, as if everyone was just at home eating dinner instead of out and about. The sun was setting, and it was disturbingly quiet on the streets of Florida. Nearly all the houses were boarded up or broken into. Several bodies were strewn in the road, which made George gag. But on they trekked.

They were about a mile away from Clay's father's house, both incredulous at their luck of having gone all this way without a zombie siting. George was still drunk, and constantly tripping over his own feet because of it. Clay was getting anxious, as they hadn't been killed yet, and that was either pure luck or a bad sign. 

But as they turned onto the street on which Clay's father lived, they stopped dead in their tracks. 

In front of them lurked three infected, all of which had looked up and spotted their potential prey. 

"Oh, fuck," George whimpered, taking a step back. "We're gonna die."

A million things ran through Clay's head as he processed the situation. He didn't have much time to think before the zombies were barreling towards him at full speed. Acting fast, he pushed George back behind him and brandished his large kitchen knife. Then he was on the ground, the blade of his forearm pressed into the throat of one zombie, and his knife embedded hilt-deep in the gut of the other. The third zombie had been slower than the other two, and was now chasing after a panicked George. 

On the ground, the Floridian was having trouble. He had the first zombie at bay, his forearm digging into it's throat and his knee pressed into it's stomach, holding it at a safe distance. The creature struggled, but couldn't quite seem to grasp that all it had to do was stand up. Clay kicked the now-near-motionless corpse of the second zombie away, forcefully yanking his blade from it's gut. Now that the knife was free for use again, the blonde quickly drove it into the first Infected's eye-socket. Blood seemed to spray from the wound as the beast howled in agony, arms swinging wildly, clawing for Clay's face. The young man swung his free arm around, gripping the back of the zombie's head in preparation to snap it's neck. In the back of his mind, Clay wondered if this would actually work, or if it was just a dramatization for movies. Clay grasped the creature's chin, his forearm still driven into it's throat, and _whipped_ his hands in opposite directions. 

A deafening _SNAP_ rang in his ears, and the Infected fell limp immediately. 

But the danger wasn't gone. George was running out of energy, the alcohol weighing on him. He couldn't avoid the zombie chasing him forever; he'd been sprinting full speed around the street, dodging grabs and tackles from the beast behind him.

"Clay!" He gasped, panting heavily. "Help!"

The Floridian rose to his feet, pulled his knife out of the first zombie's skull, and dashed in the direction of the final creature. He was a tall, lanky young man, and his long strides caught him up to the opponent in a matter of seconds, but he wasn't fast enough; The Infected tackled George and nearly got a bite in on the brunette's shoulder. If it hadn't gathered so much momentum, it would've successfully turned the small young man, but it was moving too quick and rolled right over top of it's prey. 

Clay took advantage of this, and quickly pinned it down, slitting it's throat with his kitchen knife to end the whole affair. 

George felt suddenly sober. 

The fear that had racked his body was indescribable. 

He thought he was a goner the second his body had hit the ground. But there was Clay, saving his life.

He felt so helpless in that moment. So useless. So weak. 

But at the same time, he was deeply scared of his friend.

There had been a dark, cold, deadly glint in those green eyes, which sent a chill down George's spine. 

Nonetheless, the two each took a deep breath, brushed themselves off, and walked on.

The door to Clay's father's house was wide open. 

The windows were all shattered, and there were several sets of bloody footprints on the floorboards. 

Clay's chest felt as if it were collapsing in on itself. He fell to his knees in the entryway, vision blurring with a sudden onslaught of tears. 

His father was unquestionably dead. 

George gently rested his hand on his friend's shoulder, kneeling beside him. He swayed slightly, still affected by the alcohol, but stayed upright as he brought Clay into a tight hug. 

Two hours had flown by, and Clay was barely staying awake. He shook George awake.

"Your turn," The Floridian yawned. "I can't keep my eyes open."

Nodding silently, the brit shifted into a sitting position and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. 

Within minutes, Clay was passed out, snoring ever so slightly. George watched his blonde friend, in awe of his ability to sleep so soundly. The smaller of the young men often had nightmares, and could never forget the horrors he saw in his sleep. He was very unlucky in the fact that he never seemed to wake up from the terrible dreams, only continued to be terrorized until he was woken some other way.

And every night, it got worse.

His mind was a playground for Satan and his minions. Death haunted his every waking minute, and followed him into his sleep. There was no time when he felt 'okay' by any means.

But he did feel safe.

As much as he hated not protecting himself most of the time, he knew Clay would always protect him. 

And that was his biggest comfort in times like the present. 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I would have this up yesterday and I didn't deliver :( I'm sorry  
> I was falling asleep while trying to write it cause I went on a 14 mile bike ride yesterday and it really took the energy out of me  
> But y'all when I tell you I hAD A MENTAL BREAKDOWN TODAY  
> If you haven't seen or heard yet, Dream is apparently IN ENGLAND WITH GEORGE AND WILBUR SOOT, which I found out earlier today  
> Wilbur Soot is another one of my FAVORITE Minecraft streamers/youtubers (I'm a simp for an accent, what can I say... If you're Irish HIT ME UP)  
> So SERIOUSLY go check out the "Dream, WilburSoot and GeorgeNotFound Meet Up IRL..." video by PeterDoesStuff, it shows and explains almost everything. I CRIEDDDDDDD  
> There's gonna be a VLOG  
> And George finally saw CLAY'S FACE--!


	4. Chapter 4

The sun blazed in the cloudless blue sky above, and there was nowhere to hide in the shade. Sweating, George and Clay marched onwards across the abandoned highway. Well, Clay limped more than he marched. Earlier, the Floridan had suggested they take a different route, to avoid worsening their sunburns, but George knew that the highway would be the quickest path to the mountains. And they needed a quick path. They were dangerously low on supplies. Namely drinkable water, bullets, and nutritious food. 

George was a little worried for his friend. Even after splinting his leg, Clay was still limping quite badly, and he didn't appear to be improving. 

"Come here," He muttered after a moment of consideration. 

"What?" Clay blinked, confused, stoping. 

"I said come here. You're limping really bad and I want to try and take some of the weight off of your leg." 

Still not sure what to think, the blonde didn't move. His British friend rolled his eyes and shuffled over, gently grabbing Clay's wrist and bringing his arm over his shoulder.

"Lean on me," The smaller young man said as he placed his arm around Clay's waist. "It'll help."

"You're not... The touchy type." The Floridan's tone was blunt. "I don't understand."

"You're my best friend," George murmured softly, not looking at Clay. 

Silent and unsure, Clay left it at that. They continued forward, with the taller of the two leaning on his companion for support. 

George didn't know why he chose to do that. Yes, he wanted to help Clay walk, but couldn't he have just found him some kind of walking stick? It wasn't necessary for him to get so close. 

But, oddly, he didn't mind the contact.

Over the years George had spent with Clay, he had avoided physical contact as much as possible. He did this before the apocalypse, too, preferring cats and computers to people. On occasion, it was unavoidable, like if they were hoisting one another up a steep incline or stitching up each other's wounds, and when that happened George wanted to step back as quickly as possible. Then, last week, something had seemed to click and now he didn't mind it so much. 

Seated on opposite sides of a small campfire, George and Clay ate their venison in silence. It was rare to find a deer that hadn't been slaughtered by the Infected, and so they were very happy to feast on their catch that night, no matter how small it was. As usual, George ate quicker than his companion, and was still hungry.

"Have the rest," Clay said, gesturing to the bit of meat left cooking over the fire. "I don't need it."

"No, I'm alright," The brit lied. "We can save it."

"You know we can't. It'll go bad. You're hungry, eat it." 

"...Are you sure?" 

"I'm always sure." 

Grateful, George dug in. 

He had always had a painfully fast metabolism. He could never gain weight and was almost always hungry. Clay had clearly taken notice of this, in the three years they'd spent together in the apocalypse, and was always very considerate. Whenever they ate, the Floridian always insisted that he didn't need more food, in favor of giving any leftovers (of which there hardly ever were any) to George. 

Once they finished their food, they huddled closer to the fire. It had gotten quite cold in the night, and neither of them had any warm clothes to change into. They were both already wearing hoodies and jeans, despite the fact that they were in western Kansas in the dead of August. Even then, George was shivering. 

Clay stood up and took off his sweatshirt. "Take this," He held out the faded green hoodie. "You need it more than me." 

A switch seemed to flip in George's brain, and he took the sweatshirt without hesitation, slipping it over his head. It smelled of campfire smoke and, strangely, apples.

"Thank you," He smiled gently. "I'll take first watch, okay? You get some sleep. Stay close to the fire." 

There was a peculiar feeling in his throat as he spoke. Like there were words missing from his sentence, but he didn't quite know _which_ words, and they were simply trapped in his vocal chords till he figured it out. And something churned in his chest, making him feel very warm inside, the same way a shot of whiskey did. 

The feeling seemed inexplicable at the time, but slowly, George was coming to an understanding of what it might mean.

The two young men had hardly trekked four miles, George still helping Clay to hobble along, before they heard the ominous noises of the undead. They weren't sure where it was coming from, because they could see ahead of themselves very clearly, and it didn't sound like it was behind them. But it did sound close, so they paused to check their surroundings.

Off to the left, George heard a loud, long string of clicking sounds, and peered in that direction. There wasn't much he could see through the trees, but there were many noises as if something large was shuffling around. Then, two Clickers emerged from the trees, and made George's blood go cold. 

Clickers were far more dangerous than the average Runner. They could rip your throat out and mutilate you much quicker, if they ever managed to figure out where you were. Thankfully, the beasts were blind, and could only "see" through the use of echolocation. Echolocation would be much more helpful to the creatures if they were in a building or a cave, rather than stumbling around on the edge of a Colorado freeway. 

Nonetheless, the Clickers were still terrifying, and _very_ difficult to kill. 

Clay removed his arm from over George's shoulder and quietly armed his crossbow. He only had three arrows, so he had to make the shots count, because using his gun would alert any and all enemies, undead or otherwise, to their location. Carefully, he raised the weapon and took aim.

_Chink._

A flawless shot to the jugular, downing the first clicker. The second whipped it's head around, clicking furiously, unsure of what the noise was when it's companion fell to the ground. 

Clay once again aimed his crossbow, but just as he pulled the trigger, the Clicker moved. The arrow didn't hit it's throat, but instead landed in it's shoulder. 

"Ah, fuck," George muttered as the beast screeched. "We gotta get going."

"I like that idea," Clay whispered. "Let's go, before any runners hear and come this way." 

George was fighting hard to keep his eyes open. He wanted Clay to get as much sleep as possible before waking him up for his watch. 

They'd been heading NorthWest for a while now. The two young men had stayed in Florida for several months, near the beginning of the outbreak, but quickly realized it wasn't the best of plans. Too many people had been infected, due to the high population of the area. They decided to work their way up north a bit, to Georgia and eventually Tennessee, in hopes of finding a more remote place to live out their survival. It wasn't long before they took up residence in an old cabin in the Smokey Mountains, where they stayed for a little over a year. It was very lonely, with it being just the two of them, but it was better than nothing.

After a while, the food supply there dwindled. The deer and other prey in the area was being over-hunted, by the new overpopulation of bears, and a few small groups of traveling runners had begun to prowl the area. Their little cabin in the mountains was no longer safe, and so the two young men went in search of someplace else to hide away. 

No place seemed to be safe enough. They ran into a few other survivors during their travels, each time asking if the person had seen any large groups of survivors that they could go to. Everyone always said that they didn't know. 

Until one day, in the middle of Kansas, one girl mentioned that she'd just left a camp full of survivors.

"Really?" Clay asked. "Where?"

"Hmm..." The girl, whose name was Penny, frowned at him, arms crossed. "I'll tell you for the right price."

"Anything." The blonde insisted.

"I need food."

"So do we," George huffed. "What else could we give you?" 

"I have everything else I could need," Penny shrugged. "If you don't want to know where the camp is..."

"Here," Clay shoved two handfuls of food into her arms. "Where is it?"

"Clay!" George hissed.

Penny smiled as she began to pack away the various snacks. "Up in the rockies, over in Colorado. Crestone Peak. If you start climbing, the patrols will find you and take you in." 

"Thank you," The Floridian grinned. "Very much." 

"And thank you for the food. Good luck." 

Penny wandered off, leaving George and Clay.

"Are you serious?" The brit snapped once the girl was out of earshot. "What if she was lying? You just gave her so much of our food!"

"We can find more food. For now, let's get headed to Colorado."

"Clay, you fucking idiot..." 

Now, nearly on the border of Colorado, he couldn't help but wonder why Clay had been so eager to get them to that camp. They seemed to be... Surviving. Definitely not thriving by any means, but they were alive. 

Perhaps it was simply a goal. 

That made sense to George. 

George was still struggling mentally. He was drained, and very close to giving up on life. There was no _point_ to living anymore, he thought. All he did was move through the day and stay alive. The only reason he could fathom for continuing was Clay. He couldn't imagine abandoning his best friend. 

And now Clay had found a goal to pursue. Something to look forward to, something to aim for, someplace to go rather than wandering without a purpose. 

That made sense. But was that it? There was some kind of fierce determination that George could feel radiating off of Clay, which confused him. 

Either way, they were on their way. 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey 
> 
> Working on the next chapter, should be up pretty soon. But in the meantime, please check out my other (much better and finished) DreamNotFound story, called "You Have Got To Be Kidding Me." AND you have GOT to read this other AMAZINGGGG DreamNotfound fic I've just read-- It's called "The Withering" by App1e_Juice and it deserves SO MUCH MORE LOVE. It's well written and has 17 chapters as of now, somewhere around 46,000+ words!! Amazing. Go read it here --> https://archiveofourown.org/works/25160704/chapters/60969607


	5. Chapter 5

After a long, hot summer day, the boys were ready to sit down and rest, their feet aching and their faces sunburnt. The sun had finally dipped below the mountainous horizon as the two young men set up camp just off the freeway, under a half-collapsed section of road. 

The only food they had was the box of Twinkies they'd found in the gas station. George was deeply disinclined to eat the things, but his stomach was growling loudly. He was without an alternative. 

"We've only got about twelve miles till we hit the base of the mountain. I say we search this little area for some food tomorrow morning before we start out again," Clay mumbled around a mouthful of pastry. 

"Sounds good to me. I'd rather not eat these horrid things," The brit eyed his half-eaten Twinkie with remorse. 

"I know. But you've got to eat something. You're bone thin," Clay's eyebrows came together in concern. "I promise you we'll get to that camp in the next two days. They'll have good food for you." 

George frowned. The way his friend had added "For You" to his statement was interesting. As if the camp had nothing to offer for Clay besides a home for George. 

The morning came much quicker than either man would have liked. Sleep had been sparse and there were dark circles taking residence under their eyes, but on they went. 

Searching the surrounding area was mostly unsuccessful, as the only thing they found was a single bottle of water and a granola bar. Clay quickly insisted that George eat the granola bar, as he knew his British companion was hungry. Grateful, George did as he was told. 

Soon they were on their merry way again, due west for the mountains. 

It was a fairly silent trip. Clay felt very uneasy, as if he was being watched. He walked closer to his friend than usual, keeping a close eye on their surroundings to be sure that no harm would come George's way. Of in his own little world, George didn't notice. He was daydreaming, something he did somewhat often, thinking of what he might be doing right then if the world hadn't gone to shit. 

"Fuck!" 

"Language!" BadBoyHalo huffed through the teamspeak. 

"Sorry, Bad," George sighed. "Just pissed I keep dying."

"Bad it's not like this is live, we can edit that out later," Clay spoke up, his volume a little low. 

"I know, but still. Just say muffin." 

"Can we take a break?" The brit leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. "I have a headache."

"Get some water," The Floridan sounded concerned over the mic. "Take some painkillers." 

"Yeah, let's pause for a sec and relax," Bad agreed. "We'll keep recording in a bit."

"Thank you," George said, relieved. 

They'd been working on this video for a little over an hour. They were attempting to beat Minecraft on Impossible++ mode, and whoever won first (if anyone won at all) would get $1,000. 

The teamspeak went relatively silent for the time being, as the three young men sat back for a minute. 

"Guys," Clay said after a moment. "Check the news. That infection thing that's been getting people sick? Apparently they found what's causing it."

"Huh?" Bad questioned. "Infection?"

"I saw that earlier," George murmured. "It's an evolution of cordyceps or something, right? A fungus?"

"Yeah. Bunch of people get it from infected insects, then the insects like died and started growing mushrooms and shit from their corpses."

"So like itty bitty little mushrooms? How cute!" Bad giggled, always the optimist. "Also, language."

"No, like normal mushrooms," Clay shot him down. "And the mushrooms spread spores through the air that infect more people. Lots of people are coughing and getting breathing problems and shit." 

"Language! Seriously, Dream!" 

George didn't quite remember what led to their capture.

They'd sprung some kind of a trap, and were dragged in by two very beefy-looking people with red-stained lips and hands.

Clay had struggled quite a bit, even managed to kick one guys teeth in one they were at what was presumably the headquarters of these attackers. 

Then they were thrown in a make-shift prison cell, their belongings taken. 

A guard approached soon after they were locked away.

"What the fuck is this?" Clay spat in her face. "Why are you doing this?" 

"Well food is hard to come by," The tall woman shrugged her muscular shoulders. "So some people, like us, resorted to... Alternatives. You two just happened to wander into our hunting grounds."

"Cannibals?" George whispered, cowering in the corner. His wrist was hurt, seeing as he'd been dragged half a mile by it in a vice grip. 

"Eh, we prefer survivors. Anyway, we have this for you," She shoved a tray of what looked like pulled pork in their faces. "Eat up."

Without another word, she sauntered off. 

Clay hesitated, glancing George's direction. The brit was, as usual, very hungry. But both of them knew that wasn't pork on the plate in front of them.

George kicked the platter away, deciding in an instant that he'd rather be hungry than eat a human. 

The night was long and restless. Neither George nor Clay could sleep. 

After some time, perhaps three hours, Clay broke down in silent tears. He faced away from George, peering up through the bars of their cell at the sky. He couldn't believe they were so close to salvation and yet they had been taken captive just before reaching safety. They were a mile from the base of the mountains, they were _right there._ He'd almost gotten George to safety, he'd almost fulfilled his only goal of protecting his best friend. But now...?

George had his head tucked between his knees, shaking and upset. Despite his lack of motivation to go on, he was afraid of death. Somewhere in his heart he'd began to hope that they would achieve some form of normalcy when they reached the camp in the mountains. That Clay would be safe, that he would be safe. And now they were quite literally up for slaughter. The young man then lifted his head and looked over at his companion.

"Clay," He whispered, voice quivering. "I'm scared."

"Me too," The blonde murmured, shuffling closer to George. "It's going to be okay, though."

"How?" The brit subconsciously moved in Clay's direction, leaning forward.

"I'm gonna get you out of here somehow. You're not dying here."

There was that fierce determination again, the strength in the Floridian's voice reassuring and intense. A strange sense of gratitude swelled in George, and he surged forward to engulf Clay in a hug.

"And you'll be okay, too," He said shakily, holding back tears. "We'll both be okay." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all I'm sorry I dropped off the edge of the map for a while :( My mental health was depleting and I needed a break from the internet, so I stepped away from this for a week to gather myself. I'm back now and will continue writing!! Hope you enjoyed this chapter, even though it was a little short.


	6. Chapter 6

Two more hours trickled by, the night cloudy and cool. It was oddly peaceful, for the camp of cannibals. Clay had drifted into a light sleep, leaned against the bars of their cage, George still wrapped in his arms. 

The brit was wide awake. 

He felt comfortable and safe, despite the situation. "Comfortable" was uncommon in their vocabulary, and safety was sparsely spoken of. But George felt as if he could live the rest of his life in Clay's embrace. 

The feeling scared him, in all honesty. He'd never liked to be _close_ to people, in any sense of the word; Physical contact often made him nervous, and he had difficulty connecting with people in-person. Through a screen, he was invincible, extroverted, and yet, the second he went to shake hands with anyone, he felt ill. 

So it was terrifying that he had so suddenly changed, that Clay had this impact on him.

George wanted nothing more than to stay close to his companion, for as long as possible.

The warmth, the gentle weight of his arms, the sound of his heartbeat. It all made George want to fall asleep, to allow the all-encompassing succor to pull him into easy unconsciousness. Unfortunately, the brunette refused to close his eyes, determined to memorize the feeling of being this close to Clay. He had to focus on something good; If he didn't, he'd be consumed by the thought of the gruesome death awaiting them.

Clay was struggling to keep his breathing even and his heart rate steady. 

He'd woken up twenty minutes ago, when he'd felt something wet on his shoulder, but kept his eyes shut. Quickly, he'd realized that George was crying. But more quickly, Clay had taken notice of the fact that George was curled up in his lap, head nestled into the crook of his neck and arms circled securely around his chest. The smaller of the two young men was very still, but clearly awake; he was rubbing inconsequential patterns into Clay's back with his fingertips. That was the only thing preventing Clay from moving. He didn't want to disturb his friend... And he didn't want to ruin the moment. His heart was absolutely soaring at the contact. 

Eventually, the sun peeked over the horizon. With the rise of the sun came the rise of the cannibals. 

"Morning, food," A guard spat, sauntering up to the cage. "Get up, it's time for breakfast."

"Fuck you," George hissed. "Go straight to the depths of hell and burn for all eternity."

Clay, still feigning sleep, had to use all his strength to keep his jaw from dropping at the fiery hatred in his often-calm companion's tone.

"Wow, big talk for a bag of bones," The guard snickered. "You better watch it, kid."

Faster than Clay could comprehend, George was gone from his arms. His green eyes snapped open at the loss of contact, to see the Brit on his feet. The brunette had his arms through the bars, pulling the guard forward and pinning him against them. Teeth bared, George snarled in his face; "I'll kill you right now if you lay a finger on either of us."

Out of the blue, a massive _CRASH_ sounded in the distance. An echoing of war cries followed shortly after, and a barrage of flaming arrows seemed to rain from the sky. One found it's way into the shoulder of the guard which George was holding incapacitated. Startled by the fire, George shoved the man away and stepped back. Another arrow, this one flame-less, lodged itself in the man's throat. 

Clay got to his feet. "George," He said. "I'm so proud of you."

"What?" The brit blinked, embarrassed and confused. "Why?"

"You--" 

"HEY!" 

Both of the boys jumped at the loud voice behind them. They turned and saw a tall person, with dark eyes and shaggy brown hair. 

"Help me break down the door on this thing," The person brandished a crowbar. "We gotta get you outta here."

"Are you with the cannibals?" Clay questioned, stepping protectively in front of George.

"No, I'm with the other guys. We're attacking."

"Why?" George asked. He was worried that they may be deceived.

"The cannibals have been taking our patrols, killing our people. We were sick of it," The person shrugged. "Now can we break this door down? I don't like just standing here."

Quickly, the three worked together and forced the door open. Clay pushed George out first, following shortly after, and keeping a hand on the small of George's back to make sure he was close. George found this very calming, and shifted closer to his companion.

"Alright, let's get going," The stranger pointed towards the mountains with their crowbar. "That way."

It seemed like they ran for hours before they stopped, but it was likely that they'd only gone a few miles at most. They stopped at the base of the mountains.

"By the way, I should probably tell you," The stranger huffed, out of breath. "My name's Jace. And you are...?"

"Clay and George," The Floridian took a seat on the ground. "Nice to meet you, Jace."

"Nice to meet y'all too," Jace grinned. "Welcome to the family."

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is a bit short :/ But it was kinda packed full of stuff so I hope it's kinda okay?? Make sure you check out writings by App1e_Juice, they have some fantastic DreamNotFound stories in the works right now!!


	7. Chapter 7

**((Warning: Angst and Homophobia))**

The three young adults rested for a moment or two at the base of the mountain.

George's head was buzzing.

He wasn't sure how he'd had such confidence earlier. Something inside him jumped out; He was angry that Clay was in danger. He was frustrated that they'd gotten so close to their goal, that they'd gotten so near, only for their hope to be snatched away by hulking savages with horrible human-flesh breath. He couldn't stand the thought of being helpless anymore. 

As if on autopilot, the Brit shakily took a seat beside Clay. He gravitated in the blonde's direction, leaning against his shoulder.

Clay wrapped an arm around George, both thrilled at the new constant contact and deeply concerned that George might have lost his mind in the fray. 

"You alright?"

"You alright?" George asked, his words followed by a wide yawn. 

"Yep. Sleepy," Clay responded, not lifting his head from his pillow. It was almost midnight in Florida, and nearing 5 am in England. George and Clay had taken a note from Skeppy's book and were doing a sleep stream, although the viewers could not see Clay. He was on a video call with George, who was the one streaming. 

"I never go to bed this early," The Brit mused, eyes half closed. "I'm usually up till six."

There was no answer; The Floridian had passed out. George chuckled and peered through the darkness at his phone screen. "Aww, he's cute when he's sleeping..." He mumbled to himself, smiling, having forgotten he was streaming the situation live. The stream, though donations were silenced, was going crazy, of course.

He put the phone on his pillow beside him and shut his eyes. Clay snored ever so slightly, making him just loud enough to be heard through the speaker. It was a comforting sound to George. As much as he disliked people and being close to people, the thought of someone sleeping beside him made him feel as if he wasn't so alone. As if someone was there for him.

"M' fine," George nodded, eyes glassy.

"You don't look too hot," Jace frowned in their direction. "You sure you're good?"

Nodding again, the Brit took a deep breath. "Yeah."

He was sort of having a mental breakdown, as many realizations hit him all at once in a tidal wave of shock, but he was doing what he could to hide it. 

Clay could see through the ruse, but understood that George didn't want to talk about it, and decided to ask about it another time. Perhaps when they were safer.

"So," The Floridian said, reluctantly tearing his gaze from his companion and looking up at Jace. "You ever know a girl named Penny?"

Jace grinned widely. "Sure! One hell of a girl she was, just left our camp a bit ago, bless her heart. You know her?"

"Met briefly. She pointed us in this direction, saying your camp would take us in?"

"Happy to. Always glad to have more people."

"How many people do you have now?"

"About three dozen. Not a lot, but a good amount. We're doing well for ourselves."

"And do you have lots of food? George hasn't had a good meal in a while."

Jace raised an eyebrow. "Well it looks like neither of you have."

"He needs it more than I do," Clay insisted. "Can--"

"Clay," George muttered, frowning. "Would you leave it be? Let's just get there and then we'll figure everything out."

"That's a good idea," Jace, perpetually smiling, agreed. "We can settle y'all into a place and get some food for you when we get there."

Jace led them up the mountain, weaving between trees and ducking under low-hanging branches. It wasn't an immensely steep climb, but it wasn't easy either. Many rocks stuck out and bit at the shins of the travelers, tripping them up. 

One particularly sharp stone caused Clay to stumble directly into George. The brit caught his friend by the arm and narrowly saved him from falling flat on his face. Embarrassed at his clumsiness, the Floridian smiled sheepishly, grasping George's hand for support as he regained his balance. 

George was doing all he could to contain his pained sobs. 

Not only was his heart broken, but there was a fracture in his ribs and it was killing him. 

The one time he'd ever opened up to someone, the _one time_ he'd let himself get close to a person, it ended like this. How had he not known that it was an elaborate ruse? How had he not suspected it was a set up to hurt him? 

Darkness began to set in. The wind howled in the trees above him, rustling the leaves and casting menacing shadows on the ground as the sun set in the distance.

If it had turned out to be a real date, the situation might have been less intimidating. If he wasn't in excruciating pain, if he wasn't blinded by tears, if Andrew hadn't been _a fucking asshole,_ maybe it would have been okay. 

Maybe George would've been okay. 

But, as it turned out, Andrew simply was a fucking asshole. 

_"Fucking homo,"_ He'd spat, shoving George to the ground. _"You really think I like you? You fucking disgusting homo."_

The moon was high in the sky by the time George got back home. He'd had to walk all the way, since Andrew had driven them out to the woods for their "date." Wincing, the brit lifted his hand to the door and knocked, hoping to God his mom would be the one to answer, and not his dad.

He wasn't so lucky.

"Christ, George!" The tall man huffed. "You look like shit, get in here. Where the hell have you been?"

"Dad, I think one of my ribs is broken..."

"Nonsense, you're just being a pussy. Where were you?" 

"Some of my friends beat me up," He lied. Well, more or less. Andrew _had_ kicked the shit out of him, but he wasn't going to admit that he'd been on what he thought was a date with a boy. "I really think--"

"Go to your room."

"Dad I seriously think I need to go to hospital, I--"

"Shut up," The man's breath reeked of vodka. He was drunk again. "You're such a pussy. Your friends rough you up a bit and you think you deserve some pity. I wish I had a real son."

A pang in his chest made George hesitate. He wasn't sure if he wanted to fall for someone again. It would be so much worse, this time, if it went poorly. 

But Clay wouldn't do that to him. Clay wasn't Andrew. 

Making up his mind, George smiled back at his friend. "Careful," He giggled. "If you trip again you might just take me down with you."

The Floridian chuckled as well. He went to let go of his companion's hand, but George tightened his grip. 

Surprised and blushing, Clay couldn't form words to question it.

"Slowpokes!" Jace called from ahead, interrupting the moment. "Climb now, kiss later!"

Both silent and flustered, they marched up the mountain to follow the sound of Jace's voice, hand in hand. 

.


	8. Chapter 8

An exclamation of "OH, FUCK!" made the hairs on the back of George's neck stand up. Ahead, it sounded like Jace was under fire. 

Taken by surprise, Clay threw an arm out in front of George protectively. They each took a step back, peering through the trees to perhaps catch a glimpse of the violence.

Jace was entangled with a Runner; The zombie had somehow snuck up on them and had attacked Jace now that they'd been separated from Clay and George. For a moment, George wondered how the creature had been knowledgeable enough to consider attacking the person that was walking alone, but was quickly distracted by Jace's bloodcurdling war-cry. It sent a shiver down his spine, and he saw that Clay looked unnerved as well. 

After a tense minute, an echo of the battle-cry rang out from ahead, and three men charged out of the trees, tackling the Runner that had been attempting to kill Jace. 

"Holy shit--!" Clay gasped. George wasn't sure what had caught his attention now, but there was a sudden grin on his face, and it made George melt. He was positive of his feelings now. 

As quickly as it had started, the engagement with the zombie was done. The reinforcements, the three men who had responded to Jace's call, were now wiping off their various weapons and checking in on their companion. 

"You alright?" A familiar, friendly voice said to Jace.

"Yes, honey," Jace smiled. "Just taken by surprise."

George hadn't heard the voice in so long that he wasn't able to place it, but he _knew_ that voice. And that hair... 

"You're such a muffin," The man was saying, rolling his eyes at Jace. "You had us all worried. You know that you shouldn't do that unless you thought it was super important!"

"Okay, but it _was_ important-- I've got new people and I didn't know if there were more infected that might attack them."

"New people? Wh--" 

"BAD!" Clay yelled, pushing forward into view. Darryl's eyes went wide, because he recognized Clay's voice, but hadn't ever seen his face before. 

"...Dream...?" He blinked, shocked.

George stepped out from behind the trees to join them. "Hey, Bad," He couldn't help but feel elated. 

"George!" Darryl gasped. "Oh my goodness! You're both here?"

Beyond words, George nodded, smiling. 

"Y'all know Darryl?" Jace questioned, sounding surprised and pleased. "Were you two the Clay and George he played Minecraft with?"

"Yes!" Clay's eyes were alight with excitement. "I can't believe you're _here_ , man!" The blonde surged forward and embraced Darryl. Darryl chuckled and returned the hug, still somewhat shocked by the sudden meeting. 

The sense of relief and joy was heavy in the air, making everyone smile. After a few more minutes of happy reunions, Jace and Darryl began to lead everyone up the mountain again. 

Clay bombarded Darryl with questions about how he'd gotten to Colorado, and how he'd stayed alive so long.

"I'm not defenseless," Darryl huffed, sounded a little offended. "Didn't you know I did competitive shooting? And I did knife-throwing contests, too."

"That's badass," Clay murmured. 

"Language."

At that, George giggled, making the blonde glance over at him and grin.

It wasn't long before they all arrived at the camp. It was a wide-spread community of tents and small wooden huts, all surrounding a shallow pond, perched atop a flat area on the side of the mountain. There was a cave just past the largest wooden building, decorated with colorful strings and a few oil lanterns hung from pegs in the walls. Inside the cave, George could see what looked like a collection of sleeping bags and blankets. Directly next to the large wooden structure in front of the cave was a small sectioned-off farming area, where it looked like corn and a few other foods were growing. 

George thought it seemed like a safe haven. 

Clay turned to Jace and Darryl. "George needs food," He said. 

"I've got some left over fish from yesterday," Darryl glanced at one of the nearest wooden houses. "I'd be happy to give it to you guys. Plus, you can probably stay with me if you'd like, although it might be a little cramped."

"So long as George has someplace warm to sleep," Clay nodded, furrowing his brow in what seemed to be determination. 

At this, George frowned. "Clay," He spoke gently, reaching out to put a hand on Clay's forearm. "I'd like for us to stay together."

Darryl led them into his small hut, and quickly lit a beat-up camping stove and warmed a slab of fish on a skillet. The three young men sat in near silence, simply appreciating the familiarity of Darryl's calm energy. it was decided that George and Clay would sleep in the cave, along with the other people who didn't have a tent or a cabin. The two began to set up camp in the most secluded area of the cave after George had eaten. They sat down together, taking a breather to absorb all the new information of the day. 

Lunchtime rolled around, and George was hungry again. This time, he insisted that Clay eat as well. 

A handful of people, mainly older women, passed out a serving of soup to each person. In the bowl it looked to be broth, chicken, and carrots. 

There seemed to be tension in the air. 

George couldn't figure out what it was that made him feel so oddly uncomfortable, so he turned to Clay. The blonde was staring down into his bowl of soup silently, looking confused and nervous. On instinct, George shifted closer to him. 

"What's wrong?" He asked, both about the weird energy and about Clay's expression.

"Uh," The Floridian's frown deepened. "I don't know. I just feel like... Like this isn't real. It seems too good to be true."

Considering that, the brit nodded. "It does sort of feel that way."

The last few people who had been sitting in the cave with Clay and George filed out, going to converse with other citizens of the camp. The two were alone now, tucked away in the corner. Now, without any people to see or judge him, George leaned against Clay's shoulder. The warmth was welcome, as it was chilly in the darkness.

Clay looked up at his companion. "You seem to be more comfortable with touching me now," The side of his mouth curled up in a half-smile. 

"I feel safe with you," The brit murmured. "I know I can trust you."

"Of course you can trust me. I'll always protect you," There was that sudden fierceness in Clay's eyes again, that same deep dedication.

"Thank you," George smiled weakly, his heart beating in double-time. He'd just noticed how close he was to Clay's face. There were details he somehow hadn't noticed before, like the number of freckles that were too light to see from far away, and the long lashes that framed his eyes well. "Would you believe me if I said I'd do the same for you?"

The determined look in Clay's eyes seemed to melt away, and was replaced with tenderness. Unconsciously, he shifted forward, as if to lay his forehead against George's, but stopped short. "Yes. You're tougher than you look. But now you don't have to worry. You're safe now."

" _We_ are safe now."

The correction confused Clay.

"Isn't that what I said?"

"No," The brunette giggled. "You always talk about _me_ being the one in danger, _me_ being the hungry one, all that. I know you care about me, but please think of yourself from time to time. I can't do all the thinking for you."

The Floridian cocked his head to the side. "You mean you think about me a lot?"

The statement was meant to be taken as a joke, but George nodded seriously. At this, Clay blushed. 

Suddenly, Darryl's voice called from the mouth of the cave, making the two young men jump apart; "Are you two gonna eat or are you just going to stare into each other's eyes?" 


	9. Chapter 9

**((TRIGGER WARNING: ANGST. Abuse, alcoholism, anxiety/panic attack, Homophobia, F-slur (I am queer, and wanted to clarify that I can say it, but don't want to offend anyone in its use. I will mark the beginning of the TW section incase anyone wants to skip it.))**

Confidence shaken by the interruption, George stared down into his bowl of soup, leaning away from his blonde counterpart. It was getting cold, but he couldn't bring himself to eat it; He was starting to spiral mentally. 

Darryl had joined the two young men and was sat beside Clay in peaceful silence. Clay was eating slowly and his eyes seemed a bit unfocused. 

"So," The latter spoke, tilting his head to the side and still staring off into nothingness. "You and Jace, huh, Bad?"

"How did you know?" Darryl blinked, blushing. 

"Just kinda got the feeling that you two were a thing I guess." 

"...Yeah, they saved me single-handedly from a hoard of clickers, and I've just kinda been muffin-ed ever since."

"Do you know if Zak is... Have you found him? Is he...?"

Darryl went quiet, the light flickering out of his eyes. "...I don't know. When the cell towers went out, we lost contact. I... Spent a long time searching Texas."

"He's probably okay," Clay said quickly, realizing how upset his friend had suddenly become. "He knows how to take care of himself."

The older of the two didn't respond, only frowned off into the distance with a sullen look on his face.

George was still engrossed in his own little world, daydreaming. Or, more accurately, having a waking nightmare. 

He imagined a million scenarios where things could go wrong. 

If he told Clay his newfound feelings, would Clay feel the same? Would he cringe at the thought? Would he just ignore it?

The worst imaginary situation that George could fathom is Clay reacting similarly to the way his father had.

**((Possibly triggering section. Skip to the next bolded area if you would like.))**

"YOU FUCKING FAG!" The tall, drunk brit screeched, gesturing wildly with his beer can. "How dare you! Don't you see how this'll break your mothers heart?"

"Dad--" George whispered, tears in his eyes, shaking with fear. 

It was his 20th birthday. He'd moved out, and was living on campus at Uni, studying coding, but was visiting his parents for the weekend, nd had chosen to tell them he was bisexual, against his better judgement.

"SHUT UP!" His father roared, his words slurring together. "You are a fucking DISGRACE!"

Silent beside her husband, George's mother looked away. She loved her son, and didn't care that he wasn't straight, but her husband was a tyrant, and she couldn't do anything about it at this point. 

"D-dad," George tried again, voice trembling. "I'm n-no different than the last time you saw me. I'm still the s-same person, I'm still your son."

"Not anymore. Get the fuck out of my house. I never want to see you again."

Standing slowly, reaching out weakly, George made one final attempt to reconcile with his father. 

_SMACK._

A massive red handprint bloomed across the side of George's slender face. The tears, which had been barely contained a moment before, slid freely down his cheek, stinging as they rolled across the mark left by his dad. 

**((End of triggering section.))**

A shudder shook George's frame at the saddening memory. It was the last time he'd spoken to his dad. 

After that night, his mother had begun the work on divorcing him. It had been a long legal battle, but just before George had flown out to Orlando to meet Clay all those years ago, she had succeeded in officially leaving the alcoholic tyrant. 

Clay noticed this shiver, and furrowed his brow. Darryl had left, to go find Jace, and so Clay and George were alone again.

"Are you cold?" The blonde asked gently, setting down his empty soup bowl and leaning closer to his companion. 

The brit only shook his head, not willing to verbalize out of fear that all the emotions would come tumbling out of him and ruin his little sliver of hope. 

"Is something bothering you?"

George pressed his lips together in a thin line, once again not responding. 

"Hey," Clay whispered, carefully pulling George's chin so he could look into his eyes. "Talk to me, please. I'm worried about you."

The touch sent a shockwave through the smaller young man's body. He felt like collapsing as goosebumps appeared along the back of his neck, his heart beating in double time, loud enough that he thought it was echoing off the cave walls. George was incredibly grateful that they were alone, because if anyone else could see the blush on his face, he would surely die. 

The two were frozen like this. Clay waiting for an answer, and George frozen in place. It didn't feel awkward, though perhaps it should've. The position felt _right,_ the way Clay's warm breath fluttered across George's face, their lips only a few inches from one another, their eyes locked together. But George wondered if he was the only one feeling that? Could it even be possible that Clay didn't see what he was doing? Didn't know how much he was effecting his best friend?

"George," The Floridian spoke again, just as gentle and calm as a moment before, releasing the brit's chin and moving his hand to rest it on the side of George's face. "I can tell you're upset. Something's been bothering you since this morning. Is there anything I can do to--"

Their lips clashed together suddenly, as the smaller young man pushed himself forward, grasping Clay's shirt collar. 

The immediate electricity that coursed through Clay was incredible. He felt like he was dreaming, but he didn't think much more of it, because he melted into the kiss, pulling George closer. 

With lips interlocked, eyes closed, arms wrapped securely around each other, they fell backwards to the floor, George on top of Clay. The kiss deepened as they collapsed, their long-kept emotions finally put to light. 

After a few more moments, George pulled away. His face was flushed and he was breathing heavy. 

Clay was grinning like a madman, eyes a little glazed over. 

"George," the blonde murmured. "You have no idea how amazing of a kisser you are."

At that, the brunette laughed loudly. He shifted back a bit, to stop straddling Clay, but the blonde grabbed his waist and pulled him back. 

"Thank you for that," he said, sitting up and wrapping his lanky arms around George. "I'm positive I'm dreaming but thank you."

"You're not dreaming," George said, returning the embrace and laying his head on Clay's shoulder. His heart was nearly beating out of his chest, and he could feel Clay's heart beating in double-time too. 

"...Then can I kiss you again?" 

"Please do." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...hiiiiiii  
> I really just kinda left y'all hanging didn't I? I'm so so sorry  
> School has me fucked up  
> Advanced math classes are the worst and hybrid schedules are really dumb  
> But here is a chapter! Finally!   
> Hopefully it is well loved.


End file.
